M
by Kick Flaw
Summary: [Revised/Combined/Completed] Two unlikely heroes step up to the challenge of awakening Harry and Draco to what they should be, apart and together. Slash. H/D.
1. Most People

You see, this is what good feedback does. It produces more. Yes, this is a shameless plea. No, I'm not above that. ^.~ Then again, this could be the product of an illness-induced day of boredom and ponderings on minor characters. Whatever. Feedback is still adored. 

I'm going back to bed now.

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Title: Most People

Author: Kicks (kick_flaw@hotmail.com)

Archive: fanfiction.net under Kick Flaw, anywhere else just drop me a line

Pairing(s): Draco/Harry

Rating: PG

Warnings: POV, slash, 

Feedback: Worshipped and craved. PLEASE!

Disclaimer: Is there any cross-dressing in Harry Potter? No? Then I still don't own it.

Notes: Hmmm, personally, I think Crabbe and Goyle are two of the most under-estimated and under-appreciated characters in the Harry Potter world. I guess it doesn't matter which one is POVing this, since I never give name. Hopefully it's pretty clear that it's one of them though.

Summary: Someone surprising helps Draco on the way to getting what he doesn't know he wants.

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bMost People/b

Most people think I'm stupid.

Most people are right.

Yeah, I guess I'm stupid. I'm definitely not a candidate for Head Boy, or Prefect or anything like that. Nope, not even close. When the Professors read the names of the top ten marks in class, I'm never mentioned. I'm lucky if I can pull by with a high C average.

Him, on the other hand --he's * always * on it. He'd throw a fit if he weren't. No wait; let me correct that. His * father * would throw a fit if he weren't. Snape too, probably. You don't get to be the star Slytherin without a few expectations and responsibilities loaded on. He does most of the loading on himself, actually. Gotta live up to that family name. Hell, it wouldn't kill him to get a B if you ask me.

But that's the point. No one ever asks me.

Because I'm stupid.

At least when it comes to school and that sort of stuff. Everyone's stupid at something, I just happen to be stupid at academics. Can you blame me? It's not as if I choose to lower my IQ at birth. So I can't do advanced Arithmancy or fly through Potions without the slightest confusion or grasp the concepts of Divination, does that make me a lesser person? Does it make me less capable of feeling? 

Most people think so.

He doesn't. He always treats me like an equal, taking careful time to coach me through the process of star charting, cutting into his own DADA essay to help me understand mine, reminding me which direction widdershins[1] is when it's my turn to stir our potion. That's why I always jump at the chance to do him a favour. If it weren't for him I'd have been removed from Hogwarts a long time ago and I don't know what would've happened to me then. Uncle would not be happy. Uh uh. 

Most people think I'm his goon, his personal little henchman and bodyguard all rolled into one. Hey, if that's what it takes to pay him back all I owe, I'll gladly offer myself up to that service. But frankly, he doesn't need it. His father is a very thorough man, very strict. Since he was a toddler he's been taught by the best the wizard world has to offer. He knows three languages, is adept at the piano, waltzes circles around the Professors, and can haul off with his fancy martial arts on a guy three sizes larger than him and win. Trust me, I've seen it. It's kind of scary.

Nope, he definitely doesn't need a bodyguard.

Most people think he's just a snobby, rich, pretty-boy too. Now, I can see where they get this opinion. He's rich. Duh. And spoiled by it. But don't ever tell him that, he can hold a grudge longer than a gargoyle --if he doesn't find some other way to enact vengeance on your poor, poor soul. 

But he doesn't like to get his hands dirty; He thinks physical violence is vulgar. With him, it's all about elegance and taste and control. He's very clean, very precise, very clever and very graceful. I don't know anyone else who can walk with so much poise in these sodding school robes or look down their nose at someone three inches taller. Rarely have I seen him raise his voice more then the dictates of a gentleman allow, and only twice have I seen him raise a fist. See, when he fights, it's never with a fist, it's with his mind and his wit or if that fails, his status. I guess that's why people think he's a snob. He is, but on him, it's not a bad thing.

And finally, yes, I fully agree that he's a pretty-boy. Really, who doesn't? There's a reason most people think he needs a bodyguard. When everyone else was shooting up into lanky height and loose, flapping masculinity, he was coping internally with his seemingly permanent 5'9" and feminine looks. He looks like his mother: High cheekbones, heart-shaped face, pointy chin, large, intense, heavily-lashed eyes and a well-formed mouth. Not to mention the small-boned frame. If I tried, I think I could wrap both my big paws around his waist. But then, I'm bigger than average. Most people couldn't do that. 

But it doesn't matter what he is; all that matters is that he makes me feel like I'm worth something. I'm not his goon, I'm his friend, and he's mine. 

That's why I can tell that he really isn't as perfect as he pretends to be.

You see --he's no good at feeling. He never had anyone to tutor him on how to express sympathy or compassion or love. All he knows about people is the proper way to greet them at a cocktail party. Me, I'm good at feeling. I'm * smart * at feeling. If they gave a class on understanding people, I'd ace it without blinking. He can't even understand himself.

Which is why I'm going to embarrass him a little, upset his perfect poise, give him a chance for a good fight. With gravity that is, and I'm betting gravity will win. 

I'm not really sorry that I'm going to have to do this. It's the thing a friend would do. And hey, he brought it upon himself in more ways than one. It's his fault the boy rejected him in the first place. It's his fault his sodding grudges last forever. It's his fault he's too stupid at people to see what he's feeling. So I'm going to………help him. Because I'm smart this way.

Here he comes, walking up the aisle, all smoothness and grace. My large foot, his small ankles, and bam! Success.

Whoa, I've never seen two people turn so red. Or a tipped potion disintegrate half a table. Unanticipated side effect, of course.

"Draco! My table! What happened?!"

He stutters, trying to disentangle himself from the boy he fell onto. "Sir, it was an accident. I tripped. Someone tripped me!"

Time to look away innocently. 

"5 points from Slytherin for your clumsiness and a detention for my table. Potter, 10 points from Gryffindor for my table and a detention for tripping Draco."

Good old Snape.

"But sir! I didn't trip him! I—"

Unfortunately, the boy can't finish whatever he was going to say, because Draco just lost his balance again (oops!) and slammed them together to the floor in a tangled mass of limbs and curses. 

"Get off me!"

"I can't, someone keeps pushing me!"

"Oh please, Malfoy, like I really believe that. You did this on purpose!"

"You think I * want * a detention with Snape, Potter?"

"I don't know, knowing you, you'll probably enjoy it!"

"Just what are you implying, you—"

"Boys! Dinner, with me, no excuses. Now get out of my class!"

They go. I smile. 

Most people think being stupid means being stupid in everything. 

Most people are wrong. 

No, wait………

Most people are stupid. 

El'Endo

**

[1] Widdershins is the magical term for counterclockwise.

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Please review if you liked it. Review if you didn't! 


	2. Masterpiece

Well, I crumbled. Here's the sequel to Most People, damn you guys. It's just another POV, on the part of the *other* goon this time though. I'm not altogether sure I like it, but...

Oh well. Enjoy. I hope it doesn't disappoint. And scarily, I'm sensing that this is going to turn into a series. Argh! -.-;;;;;;

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Title: Masterpiece

Author: Kicks (kick_flaw@hotmail.com)

Archive: fanfiction.net under Kick Flaw, anywhere else just drop me a line

Pairing(s): Draco/Harry

Rating: PG

Warnings: POV, slash

Feedback: Worshipped and craved. PLEASE!

Disclaimer: Is there any cross-dressing in Harry Potter? No? Then I still don't own it.

Notes: I think I'm the first person to ever write dialogue between Crabbe and Goyle. O.o;;; It was really, really FUN!

Summary: Another surprising someone steps up to help Draco in getting what he doesn't know he wants. 

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Masterpiece

Crabbe is up to something.

And don't think I can't tell. I saw him grinning when Draco tripped all over Potter in Potions. I have a feeling it was his doing. Crabbe doesn't grin often, at least outside of the Slytherin Hall, and when he does it's always got to do with some mischief or another.

I have to figure it out. Curiosity: it kills me. Besides, with Draco locked up with Snape all throughout dinner and –knowing our house leader- later, I won't have anything fun to do other than torment Crabbe about it. His neck gets really purple if you pester him enough. It's really funny.

Obviously it has to do with Draco. Almost everything we do is tied somehow to him. And it has to be important enough for Crabbe to feel secure in compromising his sometimes-nauseating respect for the blonde. I hope he doesn't like Draco like * that *. That's just be………ugh. I don't have a problem with homosexuality, homophobia's a purely muggle thing, but Draco and Crabbe? They're all wrong esthetically. Pairing Pretty and Petite with Large and Clumsy is bad in any sense.

Heh; that's so like me. Esthetics. It's always about esthetics. That's why Crabbe and I match each other so well. He tells me what he sees in people, those strangely fitting and obscure traits that define them, and I put them down on paper with a skill I'm fairly justified in bragging about. Alone, we're simply good. Together, we're great. Together, we can create a masterpiece.

It's funny. People can seem so perfect on their own, as individuals. People can * be * perfect as individuals. But if you find the right match, the right two to put together, that perfection is nothing compared to what comes of it. That's the realm of the masterpiece: A place where nothing but the essence exists. 

In my mind, there's a single, driving idea behind every soul. Everything else is circumstance, like fat on the true form of a body. When you sleek away the extra, you come down to an unchangeable, permanent truth. The core. Soulmates are the ones that find, underneath it all, that they are made from the same idea. 

And, coming together, they are a masterpiece.

Harry Potter awes me that way. He is the closest thing I've ever seen to a true core. Of course, he still has his extras, his fats, but compared to the rest of us average beings he's far and above. Secure on a pinnacle of truth that we can only hope to achieve. That's why people flock to him. Or lock him away. With Potter, there can only be those two extremes.

One soul that's near to reaching it's idea. God, he's beautiful. I wonder what a masterpiece he would make if he ever found his match. Beyond words.

But that's irrelevant. Back to Crabbe and Draco………

Oh. Ohh………I see. I get it. Of course he doesn't like Draco! He's been hell-bent on the idea that Draco fancies Potter. Ha! So he's given up on them figuring it out for themselves, and resorted to underhanded trickery in forcing it out of them. I'm not surprised.

He might succeed with Draco. Draco isn't blind –if you put the picture close enough to his face, he'll see it whether he wants to or not. Better yet, he's not the type to go all depressive and ashamed. 

But Potter……… Potter is like a different species to us, what with his blaring truth. He's not something we understand or comprehend. There's a will in Potter, one so strong it's reflected in his appearance. Piercing eyes, not dark and intense but clear --the kind that'll cut you to the bone. Mouth that's a little on the thin side, firm and fearless nevertheless. Square face, high forehead, dark hair that never falls the way it should and gives him a permanent 'I just won a battle with life' look. His movements are efficient and full of capability. No fluid, extra motions for the sake of esthetics. When I see him, I see the unconscious force and concentration of a jungle cat stalking prey. 

I want to draw him.

I sense charcoals for the medium. Maybe a touch of oil crayons here or there, but overall a smeared grayscale portrait with sketchy lines and no linear certainty. Much like Potter himself, indeterminable. It'll be a masterpiece.

Come to think of it, my portrait of Draco is done the same way. Next period I think I'll go down to the dorms and get to work on this. No, I don't think I'll do a separate picture just for Potter. I think I'm going to add him into my image of Draco. I knew it looked incomplete.

There's Crabbe now, running late from extra lessons with Professor Flitwick I'm sure. 

"Hey Crabber."

"Hey Goyle. Hey Draco. Sorry 'bout the whole detention thing."

Draco glances up from his 'engrossing' Herbology homework, his expression less than happy. "Please don't remind me."

"Well, at least you won't be alone with Snape. Potter will be there."

Draco narrows his eyes. "And you think that's a * good * thing? If I were alone, Snape would let me off with a reprimand or two. But now that Potter's involved, I'm going to be stuck up there for hours while he finds some way to torment him. Such a sadistic man."

"Hey, you make sound like you actually care about the boy."

"What? Are you mad?" Draco sputters looking like he's just been handed the highest social insult. "Care about Potter?"

"I dunno." Crabbe shrugs, plopping down next to me. "Sometimes I wonder………"

Snorting indignantly, Draco doesn't deign to answer, instead returning to his homework.

Oh, that was smooth. If I know our favorite blonde he's going to mull over that for, oh, say, forever? If he doesn't figure it out I mean. But he will. And it only took a minute of conversation!

"Hey Crabber, got something to tell me about?"

Crabbe knows exactly what I mean. He also knows that I already know most of it. We can be creepy that way. 

"Oi, it was split-second. I didn't have time to tell ya."

I nod, and together we dig into lunch, wolfing it down in no time. Across the table, Draco has broken his concentration on homework and is watching with tolerant disgust. He never could teach us those elite table manners he holds in such high regard. But then, we never could teach him that eating was more than just fueling the body. He doesn't grasp the pleasure of it. Poor kid.

With a shake of his head that sends licks of platinum hair flying, he resumes note taking. Really, we need to get him in on a few pranks again sometime soon. It's no fun without him.

"What d'ya have planned?"

"Ah, nothing big. A little push. I'll tell ya more during dinner." 

"You, Crabbe, not ya, you. What are you two talking about?"

"A prank. Shut up, Draco."

"Not bloody likely. Not until you can speak English as more than a second language to grunting. How are you ever going to pronounce your spells right with affectation like that?"

"Luck?"

I snort. We laugh. Contrary to popular belief, a Slytherin does have a sense of humour. I'm quite fond of Monty Python myself. 

Draco flicks his quill at Crabbe, leaving him spattered randomly with black ink. Hey, I didn't know he could cross his eyes and twitch his nose at the same time! Cool!

I can barely wait for dinner. This is going to be a masterpiece. I just know it. I can feel it in my palms. In the shivery tremble that's creeping up my spine. Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy are going to be a masterpiece. 

How could it not be, with Crabbe and I doing it together?

El'Endo

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As usual, reviews are printed out and taped on to the inside of my binders to keep me sane and happy in class. Not that sane people write fanfiction...heh...^^;;


	3. Microcosm

Here be the next part. As usual, enjoy. Not much else to say so…yeah. ^^;;;;;;;;

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Title: Microcosm  
Author: Kicks (kick_flaw@hotmail.com)  
Archive: fanfiction.net under Kick Flaw, the Harry/Draco archive, anywhere else just drop me a line  
Pairing(s): Harry/Draco  
Rating: PG  
Warnings: POV, slash  
Feedback: is pasted on my walls for future egotism. Feed the starving author?  
Disclaimer: Is there any cross-dressing in Harry Potter? No? Then I still don't own it.  
Notes: It's shorter than usual, sorry. Oh and yes, I've finally decided to title the series 'M' since all the titles so far have started with it. Crabbe and Goyle are still being explored, beware, Pansy will be in this issue. I like her. Ahh, ever the loyal Slytherin I be. When I've finished it, I'll condense it into a whole series with these as chapters. Right now, it's simpler for me to put it out this way. Thanks to everyone who reviewed!  
Summary: Wherein two someone's have teamed up and things progress for Draco.

(God I suck at summaries. If you can think of a better one, mail me. Please!)

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Microcosm

He left for detention.

He was gone, I think around two hours. Snape's a sodding bastard. No detention should last that long.

He came back.

I don't think he's blinked since he started staring at the fire. 

The Slytherin common room always has a fire going. It gets so cold down here, especially in the winter, I think we'd all come down with hypothermia if it didn't. It's damp too, but that keeps many of us from getting sore throats. Unlike up in the Gryffindor House, where the lack of moisture dries everyone out at least once a year. They can laugh all they want about the significance of being placed in the dungeons. It has its benefits, trust me. The giant Grandfather clock which chimes every three hours, the deeply set study-nooks lined with pillows throughout the halls and a huge, year-round fire are some of them.

Get too close though, and you'll be burned in this wet, cold abode.

Reminds me of other things. Like Draco, who's sitting a little to close for comfort. I think he's craving the heat. I think he's wondering if being dried out may have its benefits as well.

I'm watching him again; watching the firelight glint in his steady, intense eyes and reflect back from them. It's eerie, the red glow flickering over his pale skin. Crawling, almost, in its path over his features. The veins in his hands and wrists are made plainly visible, like a minute circuitry pumping not blood but electricity through him, and he's giving off that light on his own. 

He's thinking about the boy. The boy who consumes light and creates heat from it. The boy who draws the world to him, our sole source of warmth. Without him, we'd be cold. We'd all be cold, like down here in these dungeons. The boy who needs light, though the world seems to have forgotten that.

Light and Heat. Heat and Light. Fire. Drying us up.

Drying the tears up.

Not that * I * ever cry. Nope, nope, nope. Goyle might. He's desperately trying to finish his Transfiguration essay. It's kind of funny. I completed mine yesterday with Draco. I'm glad, today he probably wouldn't be up to coaching me in how to transform a feather into an elephant. And how knowing that will come in handy, we'll never know. McGonagall is a hag.

Pansy just sat down next to Goyle, looking gloriously fake as usual. She's clasped her hands tightly in her lap, her legs together, ankles crossed primly, head tilted so that bright gold curls wash down her slim shoulders: The picture of demure nobility. She hates it. She doesn't have a choice. Much like Draco. I'm glad I wasn't born into their class, sure my parents have power, but not aristocratic power. I'd hate to have been raised in that…stiffness.

"Hey, Goyle." She murmurs, her cultured voice a soothing reprieve from the coarse language left behind with Draco so silent.

"Oh hey, Pansy."

"You look like you're ready to tear your hair out."

Goyle nods miserably. "McGonagall is a hag. She hates me."

"She hates all the Slytherins." Pansy replies, grimacing.

"No kidding."

"Anyway, would you like some help?"

Poor Goyle looks pathetically grateful. He's such a dork. I have to smile. "Would you?"

He asks beseechingly.

Pansy looks at Draco, at me and at Goyle again, smiling through her puzzlement. Yeah, I didn't think we could have slipped mischief past Pansy. She's got talent for trouble, the rare times she gets in on it with us.

"I don't think Professor Draco is in right now, so I could give it a try, I'm not the best, but I've never failed in Transfiguration. Here, let me see it."

He hands it to her, blushing slightly when they're hands brush. She bites her lower lip shyly in response, before obscuring my view of her face with her curtain of hair. I give Goyle a thumb-up, making him blush even more.

Screw the Malfoy-Parkinson betrothal, I've got other plans for those two.

We'll see, we'll see. 

Draco still hasn't closed his eyes, but I don't believe he's seeing. Did I really start this? This chain of events grows into an increasingly miniature infinity. He started out so colossal, a dominating glance, word, touch, name. He was a vastness in my meager view. Now he's descending. Not falling from it, no, never, not Draco. Falling into himself is more like it. 

The microcosm of his soul –the most potent force behind his existence. Not his soul, the seed from which his soul was grown. 

He's searching for it.

He'll find light.

El'Endo

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Review if you liked, review if you didn't. 


	4. Miracle Boy

I seem to have the habit of writing two of these at once, with weeks in between. Rrrg. Anyways, here's the fourth in 'M' already…

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Title: Miracle Boy

Author: Kicks (kick_flaw@hotmail.com) 

Archive: fanfiction.net under Kick Flaw, the H/D archive, my homepage: http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/kick_flaw/ 

Pairing(s): Draco/Harry, Goyle/Pansy 

Rating: PG 

Warnings: POV, slash, het

Feedback: Worshipped and craved. 

Disclaimer: Is there any cross-dressing in Harry Potter? No? Then I still don't own it. (damn you, Vince, I have to think of a new one now) 

Notes: .…none. ^^;;; Oh! Unbetaed.

Summary: What the hell, you probably already know, and if you don't go read the other's first. The fourth part. 

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Miracle Boy

Oh wow. I think she likes me, I think she really, really likes me. I can't believe it! Why would she like me? I mean, I'm not handsome or clever or keen or…

But she likes me.

I really, really like her too.

I'm so happy I could cry. Or maybe I'm just having a nervous breakdown. My brain feels like it's been melting out of my nostrils since lunch. I haven't been able to focus. My mind has been wandering out of every window. My eyes can't seem to tear away from the doodles lining the edges of my notebooks. My heart has been fluttering about in anticipation and now it's roiling over in small flurries of excitement, brewing up the courage to ask her out. I'm definitely going to. Crabbe said she likes me, and what Crabbe says goes, you know.

I can't sleep like this. I'm too giddy. Kinda…dizzy.

Oh, Pansy Parkinson, what you do to me. The sweet blue of your eyes, the silky smooth brush of your fingers against mine, the waterfall of golden curls that washes over your petite back -- they hit me hard. Hard, right here, and draw out melodramatic clichés like the corny poetry I was just spouting. I can't stay here, the drapes and blankets are so confined and I feel like I'm drowning as it is. I wish I could drown in you, it'd be like flying. Flying through the sheer, intense * blue * of your eyes.

I have to get out. Now. Hey, I never did write the conclusion of my paper. Ten inches, ugh. I should work on that --maybe it'll take my mind off of these…things before it strays too far. I'll head down to the common room and snuggle up to transfiguration near that gloriously warm fire Snape keeps constantly burning. 

Getting out of bed, I remind myself that I * have * to remember to skip the third step from the top. It creaks as loud a blasted foghorn and echoes down here. Touch it with your little toe and it goes off like a blooming pistol. Not that I would ever touch one of those. Muggle weaponry is so messy. 

Crabbe said she liked me back! Oh, oh, oh! Oh—

--shit! I forgot to skip that step! Bugger. 

If only Draco was here, he'd never let me forget. We'd be sneaking out to pull pranks like a bloody poltergeist by now, wands in hand, muffling our laughter in our sleeves. And of course, he would have said "Greg –"

"—how many times have I told you to skip that step?"

Oh my poor, poor, over-stressed heart. I'm not this uptight usually! Now I have to pick up all my papers. The git.

"Git. You scared the curses out of me!"

"Shush. Snape will have an apoplexy if he finds us awake." He murmurs absently.

It seems Draco hasn't been getting much sleep tonight either. He looks more than the worse for wear, ragged, distracted. He's sitting cross-legged on the floor right in front of the fire, idly running his fingers over the scuffled line of stone visible between one throw carpet and the next. The many clasps and buckles of his robes have been undone, letting them hang loose off of his form. Not a good look for him; way too ruffled for his elegance.

I'm probably worse, though. 

But Pansy likes me. I know she wouldn't mind. So I'm happy and rumpled and happy.

Draco isn't happy, I can tell. He isn't unhappy though. What's the word I'm looking for? I can't remember…

"You don't look so good, Drac." I mutter, deciding to sit next to him on the floor instead of on the couch as I was anticipating.

"Well. Not good. Well."

"I don't care. What's up?"

He slants a glance at his hand, which hasn't stopped it's motions over the cold stone floor, hesitating. 

I know what this is going to be about. I'd forgotten, what with Pansy (WHEE!) and all. Now, let's see if I can do this 'understanding' thing as well as I do art. Actually, his expression is rather fascinating. I wonder if I could capture that…look. Oh, what's that word?! Bugger. 

But it's so silent. It doesn't matter.

Finally, without looking at me, he asks a question. "Have you ever met someone you couldn't define in a single term?"

No. There's no such person. Everyone can be boiled down to some essence. Draco's doing this 'falling in love' thing all wrong. "No. There's no such person."

"Me neither. Have you ever met someone who's definition seemed too vast for you to comprehend?"

"Nothing is beyond comprehension."

"How about someone who was such a complete antithesis of yourself that you couldn't touch each other."

"Never. To be an antithesis they have to be made in the same realm in the first place."

"Yes. Love and indifference are both reactions within a human soul. So are hate and indifference. But what about love and hate?"

"Love and hate are the same thing, taken to the polar extremes. You taught me that, Draco."

Draco nods slightly, his body language acknowledging me though his eyes do not. My hands fall to the floor, the effort I'd made to keep them gripped around my transfiguration text gone, siphoned out into focusing on giving the answers he needs to hear. I can feel carpet beneath them, thick and warmed by proximity to our fire. I wonder if the stone is warm too. Funny, I assumed it would be cold.

"Have you ever met someone, someone who made you feel like there was just enough?"

"Not too much. Not too little. Just enough."

"Yes."

"I have."

Pansy.

"Greg, Vince tripped me today, didn't he? You remember, during Potions when I received the detention from Snape?"

"Yes."

"I thought so."

Draco moves so that his elbows are braced on his knees, his hands are clasped in between, and his head is resting on his upper left arm. The metal clutches of his robes clack against each other. My hand has found the stone he was caressing moments ago. I was right. It's cold. I let my fingers drift over it absentmindedly, marveling in the rough, real texture. We are still. For a long, long time.

"Greg?" his voice is barely a whisper. "Have you ever met anyone whose mere existence is a miracle?"

"One."

"Who?"

"Harry Potter."

"Harry Potter." He echoes. "Miracle Boy. You remember how we used to call him that?"

"Used to?"

Draco's eyes widen, and I know, I know I've hit it. It's there. I know the word now! Dizzy! He looks dizzy, like someone who's falling. No, like someone who has fallen and doesn't know where they've landed. 

No, like someone who is about to fall and doesn't know how hard they'll hit.

No. 

Like someone who is falling in every direction at once.

Falling so quickly, plummeting, but never moving. Someone who has reached a point of complete, equilibrium. Not by maintaining a balance --a gust of wind can disturb that– but by falling everywhere at once. Falling down and up and east and west and north and south and left and right all the time, every way, attaining a center of flawless, exquisite gravity. 

Love is in that. A gravity applied. A dizziness.

"Draco?"

He looks dizzy, tugged upon. 

"Miracle Boy…" He isn't paying attention to me anymore. He's lost in his own thoughts, talking to himself. I think I should leave him here for now, I can finish this tomorrow during lunch. 

As I am about to ascend the stairway back to the dorms. I hear one soft, familiar phrase drift through the silence. 

"…oh, what you do to me…"

El'Endo

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Skittering off now. Lusting feedback. 


	5. Musicality

SD is being a byatch. Here. 

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Title: Musicality  
Author: Kicks (kick_flaw@hotmail.com)  
Archive: fanfiction.net under Kick Flaw, my site: http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/kick_flaw/

Pairing(s): Draco/Harry, Pansy/Goyle  
Rating: PG  
Warnings: POV, slash  
Feedback: Donate to a good cause!  
Disclaimer: Is there any cross-dressing in Harry Potter? No? Then I still don't own it.

Notes: Fifth in the M series. Be in awe, I finally figured out what happened at the detention. Kinda. Who needs detail? Ah heh…^^;;;

Summary: blah blah, go read the first ones if you don't know. 

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Musicality

I hate mornings.

"Crabbers, wakey uppy timey." 

Shut up, Goyle.

"Cra~abbers!"

I hate that nickname.

"Vince, you'll miss breakfast."

As I fly into my robes, I ignore Draco's smirk. He knows me too well, knows that mentioning the prospect of losing chow will whip me into action immediately. And he uses that, you better believe it. Just because he doesn't believe that food is anything other than fuel for the body doesn't mean I can't enjoy it myself. I look forward to breakfast, even if I sometimes feel like a troll while relishing in it. It's just the way Draco's mouth twists slightly when he catches sight of me and Goyle stuffing our faces. 

I feel bad thinking it, but sometimes Draco can be a real jerk without realizing it. 

"I'm going down to the table. I promised Pansy," Goyle's voice squeaks, "that I'd save her a seat next to me. Cool, huh? Seeya there."

Draco waves idly, not looking up from clasping his robes. I nod at Goyle and grin, knowing that he'll grin back. 

Stupid Goyle --he left without making his bed. Snape's gonna get him for that.

"Vince?" calls Draco. "Could you help me with this? I'll help you."

Why does he say that every morning? He knows I'll help with the daily bed making, I would even if he didn't help with mine. Still he continues the formality. I was halfway to his bunk anyway.

Together we scoop the thick coverlets over his mattress, me taking the right and he the left when it's time to tuck in. From the looks of it he didn't sleep well last night. Everything's twisted and tangled worse than usual. And it's usually pretty bad; Draco isn't a peaceful sleeper.

I remember the first time he woke me up with his thrashing. When you're eleven, and suddenly your new roommate's pillow smacks you across the face at a god-awful time in the morning, there is very little you can do to restrain yourself from retaliation. Hey, how was I supposed to know he was sleeping? All I knew was that I had a mouthful of feather and cotton and wasn't about to let go easily. Before long Goyle and Blaise were up as well, and the pillow fight to end all pillow fights was being waged. We all got a week's worth of detention for waking up the girls. It was fun.

It's not nightmares that make Draco a nervous sleeper, I don't think. He's never complained of any, or woken up screaming. Unlike Blaise, who screams like a bloody banshee every Wednesday. Wednesdays are his "Rats! Rats everywhere!" nightmare days. Like clockwork. No, Draco's never been that way. Come to think of it, Draco never wakes up when Blaise goes off. Maybe Malfoy Manor has real banshees. I'll have to ask.

"Does Malfoy Manor have banshees?"

Draco looks up from smoothing his last corner. "Yes."

So I thought.

You see Draco's problem is that he moves a lot. He twitches, jerks, tosses, turns, throws himself all over the place in almost continuous spasms throughout the night. He falls out of the bed, ends up diagonally across it with his head at the wrong end, once he even managed to hook his right knee over the headboard and droop over the edge so that his head was upside down. Let me tell you, * that * was a funny forenoon. All the blood pooled in his temples made Draco dizzy as a vampire on penguin blood –he spent all morning tripping and trying to fix his gravity-defying hair. The image still makes me laugh.

"What are you chuckling about?"

"Nothing."

I think he has such a problem remaining still because he's still so much while awake. Draco's one of those naturally restless people who's constantly in motion. A trait that was trained out of him when his family was making sure he fit their standards. Standards, which mean an unmoving grace and economy of motion, control of all expressions and movements, and absolutely no 'idle twiddling'. The only way for him deal with it is to release it in his sleep. 

Though from the looks of it, I doubt sleep was in any way involved last night.

Once it's begun, it's very hard to stop.

And I've been wondering…

We're working on my bed now. 

"Draco?"

"Yes?"

"What happened at your detention yesterday?"

He slows his motions slightly, tidying up the wrinkles in my blankets with cautious thoughtfulness. "I'm not exactly sure, Vince."

"Well, what was the detention?"

"Did you know Hogwarts used to have a choir?"

Really? Well, it is a school, it would. I wonder why they don't have it anymore. "No."

His thin hands fold the thick cotton of my bedspread and I watch them. 

"They did. But one of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's first attacks was on one of their tour performances for Beauxbaton and Durmstraang. Every student was killed. Dumbledore had the music room shut down in their honor until He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is finally defeated." 

…wow.

He has long, deft fingers.

"Snape had Potter and I sweep out the old choral practice room for the detention. You should see the place, Vince, dust everywhere. Even on the piano. I don't understand how they can let such a magnificent instrument rot like that. It's not…right."

Fingers that pat my pillow, bemused, before we move to Goyle's bed. (He owes us.)

"Did you know I play the piano?"

"Yeah. You told us."

"Oh…I remember."

I look up, and find him silent, obviously not willing -or not able- to say any more. In silence we begin the ritual of making Goyle's bunk. Scooping and tucking and folding and smoothing. My hands look clumsy doing menial labor, as ironic as that is, while Draco's make it look like a sacred rite, a precious chore only meant for hands such as his. Piano-players' hands.

Yes, I remember. It was the day Goyle revealed his art to us. He was embarrassed, so Draco admitted to playing the piano just to make him feel better. Somehow he ended up explaining for hours the finesse of musicality.

It's a bit hazy, the intricate details of being a musician. I've never been exposed to that kind of learning, I'm as tone-deaf as the next guy. I do recall one thing. I guess because it was interesting. Who knows? Maybe I recall it all and this is the only thing that's clear because my mind has fitted it into the picture.

Diatonic Transposition is the fancy term for it.

Basically, the exact same melody played in different scale. You start with Do-Re-Mi-Do, 'diatonically transpose' the tune, lets say up two steps, and you end up with Mi-Fa-Sol-Mi. The same composition played on a different clef. 

Imagine an entire aria made up of one melody, soaring upwards, flying across a range of notes without the complication of harmonies and entangling euphony. Not a fugue or a florid or any such dissonance involving multiple diapasons. A simple, unvarnished melody.

The style of music that would play soundtrack to Romeo and Juliet, and Tristan and Isolde --the crescendo of soulmating. 

Two people, two sets of divergent notes, the same melody. 

And I wonder why it brings tears to my eyes.

El'Endo

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There's an end in site…somewhere….


	6. Manifestations

Here.

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Title: Manifestations

Author: Kicks (kick_flaw@hotmail.com) 

Archive: fanfiction.net under Kick Flaw, my site: http://www.angelfire.com/grrl/kick_flaw/ 

Pairing(s): Draco/Harry, Goyle/Pansy

Rating: PG 

Warnings: POV, slash 

Feedback: Donate to a good cause!

Disclaimer: Is there any cross-dressing in Harry Potter? No? Then I still don't own it. 

Notes: Not much to say. My back hurts. For everyone who made me feel loved. 

Summary: blah blah, go read the first ones if you don't know. 

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Manifestations

Class again. Double Potions today, which sucks about as much as anything can suck. Don't get me wrong, Snape is a great Head of House; he's always giving us points, intervening for us during fights, keeping the other Houses out of our territory, and all that stuff. But he's a dreadfully boring Professor. Or maybe it's just the subject. Draco seems to think it's fascinating, so yeah, it's probably the subject. I hate Potions. Bloody mixing that and stirring this and chopping the asphodel blah blah blah. I wish Hogwarts offered more interesting electives. Like…art. Or art even. Hell, I'd sign-up surefire for just * art *.

Beauxbaton offers art. Sadly, I don't speak French, so attending is out of the picture. 

Ha. Picture. I took a picture of Pansy yesterday. Ok, ok, I took four pictures of Pansy yesterday. I couldn't figure out which angle was best. I want to paint her, but she won't pose. Usually, I don't need someone to pose to capture them, but…I want this to be special. I want to look at her while I do it, really grasp the shades and curves of her form. I want…watercolor. Watercolor and soft pastels, with the occasional slash of oil crayon maybe. But she's too shy to pose, so I took pictures instead. Had to swipe Avery Mahachek's camera to do it. Fortunately, he fell off of his broomstick the other day and is being nursed back to questionable health by Madam Pomfrey. 

Madam Pomfrey is a little scary. She likes to keep the students for as long as possible. Which is…yeah, pretty scary. I suspect Avery won't be back for another day at least, which leaves me ample time to return his camera. Draco says she's lonely. I say she's nutty. Either way, I have my pictures of Pansy. 

"You coming or not?" Crabbe is standing in the doorway, looking over his shoulder at me impatiently. I can vaguely see half of Draco on the other side of him –he appears to be tapping his foot. Right, right. Double Potions.

"Yeah, yeah." Gathering my materials is a pain, but we get a break after all double classes, so I don't have to worry about grabbing anything except my notes and text. Both are falling apart. 

The three of us make our way to the classroom slowly, Crabbe and I dragging the distance out as much as possible, our normal exercise. And today's lesson: How Long Can Time Be Plausibly Stretched Without Damage to the Flow of the Universe? Not long enough.

I think I've stopped moving. 

And…for the first time there's no tolerant, composed voice scolding me to hurry up. Right about now, I usually hear a "Hurry along, you lags" or a "Stop stalling, it's just Double Potions" and sometimes even a "Move it, or I go on without you". Time to add another incident to the 'Strange Happenings at Hogwarts' tally I keep in a journal under my bed. I also need to add Avery's little flight miscalculation. He was born on a bloody broom, for Merlin's sake. If he didn't fall off * then *, why now? Now his mother –she was not so lucky. 

All it takes is a look –in the interest of documentation- to firmly convince me that Draco is moving backwards. 

Away from Double Potions. Away from Professor Snape, his idol and godfather. Away from his favorite class.

Away from Harry Potter.

Crabbe glances at me quickly, his mouth twitching. I see, yes, he has a plan, and I know exactly what it is. Well, play on, buddy, I twitch back, and he nods in recognition of my understanding. 

"What's wrong, Draco? Did you forget something?" Crabbe.

Draco shifts a bit, hitching his bag into a more secure place on his shoulder. "No."

"Have to use the lav?" Me.

"No." He looks at me, then at Crabbe, grey eyes bemused under the curve of blond lashes. 

"You're stalling." Says Crabbe, blunt as ever.  


Well, that shook him out of his thoughts –into offended defense. "I most certainly am not."

"But," it's my duty to point this out, as obvious as it is. "You're backpedaling."

"Yeah."

"Backpedaling! Do you even know what that means, Greg? I have never, will never, and am not * now* backpedaling."

I grin. He's so funny when he gets all ruffled and outraged. He reminds me of a bird who's had it's feathers fluffed –his posture tightens so that his shoulders draw back, his chin lifts, and he glares. It's not the scary kind of glare though, more the 'humph!' kind. I especially love how he pouts. It's completely unconscious. The product of being flattered incessantly as a child. 

Crabbe interjects unnecessarily. "Yes you are."

"Am not."

"Are too."

"Am not!"

"Are too, are too, are too!" Gah, Crabbe can be so…juvenile. Draco is getting flustered. 

"Am not, am not, am—"

Harry Potter brushes between Draco and I, his lean, slightly gawky frame briefly separating Draco from my view. 

How Long Can Time Be Plausibly Stretched Without Damage to the Flow of the Universe

Instants distend into minutes, minutes into hours, hours into days, days into years, years into centuries, centuries into millenniums, and suddenly an eternity has flown by. Like sand pulled out from beneath our feet when waves bathe the shore. We loose and slip and regain our balance. A wealth is lost, everything shifts, nothing can ever be the same –all in an instant. An instant when the soul spins out of control, thunderclouds of truth meet and clash and merge into one. Manifestations of the eternal become external. 

A moment when hands tangle, silence explodes, and the black of one robe melts into the black of another, for Harry has tripped now, over the foot of fate rather than the foot of a meddling teenager. Perhaps it was fate both times. 

Awkward skin meets, hypersensitive.

"Merlin, I…bloody hell, I'm sorry…I'm so clumsy…I…" Harry –on his knees.

"No…it's not, it wasn't…here, let me help you up…" Draco –offering a hand.

"Thanks, jeez…I hope I didn't rip your robe…" Harry –standing.

"No…" Draco –straightening his outer robe.

"No?" Harry –intense, holding on to one slim, piano hand. 

"Yes." Draco – still, understanding, answering.

"Yes?" Harry –leaning forward.

"Yes." Draco –breathless, firm. 

"Yes." Harry –smiling. 

When it is over, I can see Draco again. 

But I don't recognize him at all. 

El'Endo

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Hmmm…feedback?


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